The Eternal City, Part 7

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"Death's Finger"! HA!

A long, low mound overlooked the village of Clover Hill, remnant of some ancient structure. Unfinished, pillar-like stones stood in an oval encircling the top of the mound, their greenish hue contrasting sharply with the predominantly brownish surroundings.

The people of the village avoided the mound, using such epithets for it as “Doom’s Hill”, or “Death’s Finger”. None had been to the top of the mound in generations, heeding weird stories told by the elders of the elders.

This near-institutional trepidation was not entirely manufactured from the collective imagination of the villagers. There was a small grain of history behind the name of “Death’s Finger”, though none living in the village remembered. And just as well, as surely they would abandon their ancestral home, had they known what hid among them.

Within the ring of stones, hidden by weird qualities of his own, and those of the stones, stood an ancient, stooped form. He wore a squat, wide-brimmed hat, and held a black cloak tight about his emaciated form. His irises were golden, his wispy hair, gray and black. A weak beard showed itself patchily across his cheeks.

To his right, contrasting sharply with the brightness of near-noon sun floated a patch of swirling darkness. Within that darkness floated two tiny golden circles, the irises of a kindred being.

“Well?” a hissing voice from within that darkness asked. “Have you felt its death?”

“I have not,” the man answered, his own voice gravelly and weak. “I think you have failed.” His last word was laced with mockery.

The dark form allowed the provocation to pass. “Perhaps my children simply have not found it yet.”

“Ah, yes,” the old man answered. “Your children. I suppose I should mention that I did feel one of them die.”

A small growl seemed to emanate from the patch of darkness. “I suppose you would simply unleash your hordes upon it, risking our exposure!”

“I have subtler ways, also,” the old man answered. “Death comes in many forms.”

“But, few of those forms go unnoticed by the Keeper of the Record. We cannot yet afford an open conflict. You must remain hidden, for now.”

The old man said nothing.

The darkness pressed its advantage: “No, it shall be my children who do this deed, not yours.”

“Then perhaps you should go, and bid them do it right!”

The darkness laughed thinly. “As you say, O mighty King of the Dead. One last thing, though. What of the Sword Goddess. What is her game?”

“Who can know her mind?” the other replied.

“Who, indeed?” the shadow said, and faded away into the wind, leaving the King of the Dead with his thoughts.

He wondered who this little shadow godling was. It was not the Night Spirit, as it claimed to be. He suspected it was simply the collective cunning of the troll races, congealed into a nightmare, and ruling over its unwitting creators. Whatever the case, it was right: there was little the King of the Dead could do, openly. Not without alerting his enemies; and it was not time for that. Not yet.

So, the little troll god would be Death’s tool, for now. Later, it would pay for all the little insults. It would pay, and pay some more.

Below, in the village of Clover Hill, the people felt a momentary chill fall across their spines. Later that night, an infant would die in her crib, and the elders would recall that chill, and look to Death’s Finger.